


but we are the crossroads

by eudaimon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, M/M, Post canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1492216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was only an accident.  It wasn't supposed to end like this.  Scott's not content to let it lie.  He's always felt that he has to do something.</p>
<p>In which Scott is (sort of) Orpheus and Stiles is (maybe) Eurydice.<br/>It's a long, long way down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but we are the crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> The Orpheus story is my very favourite of all of the myths - it's been haunting my writing for years. I started writing this halfway through 3b airing, and then had to take a break while they sort of explored some of the themes contained here-in. It surprises me that this is the first time that I've written this fic for a fandom.
> 
> I hope it's turned out okay.
> 
> (I owe a lot to the poem "Snow and Dirty Rain" by Richard Siken, not least the title and epigraph of this fic. You can read the text of the poem [here](http://poeticfuck.blogspot.co.uk/2008/06/siken-snow-and-dirty-rain.html)

“We have not touched the stars,  
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back  
to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,  
not from the absence of violence, but despite  
the abundance of it.”  
\- RICHARD SIKEN 

*

Against all of the odds, they survive high school. Somewhat inevitably, college is another thing that they do together. Scott's on the right pathway for Veterinary Science; Stiles went for Classics in the end, turns up to class late and sits in the back, scribbling notes in the margins of texts written in Latin and Greek. He's got one professor who swears that the Godfather movies are the perfect analogy for Ancient Roman politics. It's kind of ridiculous, but he loves it. He occasionally calls Lydia for help with his Latin homework.

It's insane how happy they are.

At night, they end up in one bed. They've been sleeping over at each other's houses since they were old enough not to get homesick and tearful; it feels natural to be crushed into each other's space in dorm rooms. They're exactly the same height so they fit together neatly, Scott pressed against Stiles' back. They're exactly the same height, but Stiles has bigger hands, more hair on his chest. Even after all this time, it's still unexpected, somehow, like Stiles grew into this, into himself, when not even Scott was looking.

They fuck pretty joyously, trying things as they occur to them. They do everything but, honestly, Scott likes it best when it's quiet, when it's him on top of Stiles, Stiles' legs bent on either side of him and his long fingers pressed into Scott's hair. He likes it best when they pauses between kissing but stay close, their lips brushing as they breathe each other in. He likes looking Stiles in the eyes while he's inside him because it reminds him that, once, not long ago, he'd thought he'd known everything and that the only that he hadn't thought about was this.

"I love you," says Stiles, his back pushed into a tight arch.  
Scott traces the line of his side with one palm, follows Stiles downwards into it like his body is a path, or a road, or a river.

*

_Come on. Come on, Scott. Please.  
Come on._

*

 

_i: "separation"_

At first, he doesn't believe it. He's been waiting for it - _expecting_ it - for so long that, when it happens, he almost can't accept that it could possible be real. Ever since they got through the horror that was the Nogitsune (got through, though not all of them walked away), he's almost been waiting for it. But, when it happens it's so straight-forward and mundane, nothing like he was expecting. Nothing. It's nothing. Scott's hands start to tremble, still holding the phone to his ear. He has to ask the Sheriff to tell his mom everything again, because he can't make the words make sense. He needs to hear it from her.

(A car accident. Stiles in the jeep alone, a drunk driver, a long stretch of open, empty road. Wet asphalt. The jeep - that piece of shit jeep that's seen so many of their lazy, joyful days - flipped, and could not right itself. January. Stiles won't be nineteen for months yet. No idea. No idea what came next. Thanks, Melissa. Call you later. Promise. Okay).

 

They're home for the holidays. They've been spending every minute together. Stiles has only been gone for an hour.  
 _Fuck_.

Scott ends up sitting on the floor of the kitchen with his arms wrapped around his knees. He doesn't cry; tears don't even threaten. For Allison, there'd been tears right here, in this kitchen with his mom's arms wrapped around him but, now that it's Stiles, he doesn't even know what he's supposed to do next. It feels like he has to remind his body of every single involuntary process - when to take a breath, when his heart has to beat. He's barely aware of his mom sitting down next to him. There's tears on her face; she figured it out, even if he couldn't. Her hair smells, suddenly, of cold and ashes. Winter things. She doesn't put her arm around him this time; instead, she reaches out and slots her fingers through his, hold his hand. He feels five years old again.

"Oh, Scott," she says, softly, her thumb stroking along the length of his. "Oh, baby. I'm so, so sorry."

And, of course, she is sorry. She has to be - she's known Stiles as long as Scott has. This has got to be tearing her up. But it can't feel exactly the same way as it does for Scott.

Because Scott loved him first, in more ways than he knows how to count.

*

Being with the others is a nightmare; none of them know what they're suppose to say. They're a ragged pack, these days, but they still know how to pull in tight at times like this. They've had practice, after all. Waiting on a corner, someone bumps his shoulder. _Not Stiles_ , he has to remind himself. _Never Stiles again._

"Hey, Issac."  
"Hey." Issac stands beside him, pale and still, hands swathed in his cardigan. After Allison's dead, he came back from France even quieter than before; he doesn't smile as often as he used to. "You...uh…I…"  
"It's okay, Issac," says Scott, squaring his shoulders, taking a breath.  
"No, it's not."  
"No, it's not, but it kind of has to be, doesn't it? It'll be okay." Scott glances down the street, can't shake the feeling that everyone's staring at him. "Come on. Let's just get through it. Let's go meet everyone."

Issac just nods and falls into step.

*

At lunch, they cluster around him, like they can somehow fix it through sheer proximity. They don't talk about Stiles, not at first, but he's there, constantly, in everything they say. Lydia's doodling in a sketchpad - a tangle of weeping women and reaching hands, but at least it's not the Nemeton again. Kira, Danny, Issac - they all press close together so that it's not so obvious that there's a gap. Stiles is conspicuous in his absence and Scott keeps catching himself looking up, expecting to see him come fumbling over to them, bitching about one thing or another.

Scott's heart feels like an open wound in his chest.

Out of all of them, he thinks that Lydia is probably the one closest to understanding. Out of all of them, the others, she knew Stiles for the longest - even if she did make a fine art of ignoring him for years and years. Later, though, things have changed - right at the end, right when the Nogitsune almost had them, it was Lydia, just Lydia, who kept Stiles on his feet. Scott isn't surprised, somehow, when he watches a single tear overspill the edge of her eye and roll down her cheek. It splashes onto her notebook and she just stares at it for a moment before she slams it shut and stands up.

"I can't do this," she says, a little too loud, a little too shrill. People turn and look. Kira starts to get up but Scott beats her to it.

"It's okay, Kira," he says, starting to feel like a broken record. "I've got it."

Gently, Scott takes Lydia by the elbow and guides her away from the bustle of lunchtime. They end up behind the diner, out by the parking lot. Scott wonders if he'll ever get used to not seeing Stiles' piece of shit jeep, parked crooked as always.

"It's okay to be sad, Lydia." He says it gently. Right then, he can't imagine ever feeling anything again. He doesn't even feel _sad_ , exactly. He feels scooped out and hollow. Like the light could pass straight through him. "This is...it's huge and it's horrible. And…" He swallows, trying to think of what comes next. "I can't imagine what life's even supposed to look like without him. I don't even know what shape I'm supposed to have now."

"I kissed him," she says, blurts it out and then looks guilty. "When his panic attacks were really bad. To make him hold his breath."

Scott laughs despite himself. Even after one day, not even twenty-four hours since his mom took his phone out of his hand, Scott feels out of practice - the sound comes out rusty and weird.

"I bet he loved that, though. I bet it made him so, so fucking happy."

Lydia laughs too, just a hiccup, and then she slips into sobbing, covering her face with her hands. Somehow, Scott hadn't been expecting her to be this upset but now he can see that that was careless of him, cruel. Lydia does a good job of pretending to be cold, pretending not to feel but here they all are, torn open, and everything that they've been trying to keep secret, everything they've kept hidden, is raw and open to the air.

"I just miss him, Scott," she says, barely manages to get the words out. "I...didn't...I don't...I wasn't." She sighs and tries to wipe her face, ends up smearing mascara down her face.

In the end, Scott wraps both arms around Lydia, pulls her in against his chest, leaning his chin on the top of her head as she cries. He doesn't know what he's supposed to say to her. He doesn't know what he ever could say. All he knows is that, right in that moment, he's got to be immovable.

So he is.  
Or he tries, anyway.

He manages to keep it together until he gets home. His mom still at work, a shift she couldn't get out of, so the house is dark and quiet. Scott doesn't turn on any lights as he heads up to his bedroom. He doesn't risk catching sight of himself in any mirrors because he doesn't want to see the look in his own eyes. He strips out of his clothes and crawls into bed. On the opposite pillow, there's a discarded hoodie - last night, he'd dug through his closet with increasing desperation until he found it. He and Stiles had been borrowing each other's clothes and this hoodie, this particular red hoodie, had been Stiles' favourite, for a while. Scott wraps his arms around it, hugs it tight against his chest.

The tears, when they come, come without warning. The hit him like a wave.

He's still crying when his mom comes home - it could be minutes later, but it could also be hours. He's dimly aware of her in the doorway and then she's climbing onto the bed with him, her hair hanging down to curtain both of their faces as she bends to kiss his temple, his damp cheek. Her hand rests on the nape of his neck, combs through his hair.

"Oh, Scott," she says, softly. "Oh, baby. My baby."  
"It hurts, Mom," says Scott, mumbles it, presses his face against his mom's hip, the soft, worn fabric of her pajama pants. "I didn't...how does it hurt this much?" 

It has to have hurt this much for Allison, he realises, but his memory of it now is indistinct. It's like having more than one tattoo - you can get more than one because your brain isn't designed to remember that sort of pain distinctly. If it was, no woman would have more than one child. If it was, nobody would ever fall in love more than once.

"It hurts because you've had something ripped away from you. Something you...weren't ready to lose." She combs her fingers through his hair. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now but, eventually, what hurts now - it's going to scar. And you'll feel better. You'll feel different. Time heals."

But Scott doesn't want to heal - not this time. He wants it to stay open and bloody; he wants a wound rather than a scar. He doesn't want to change and he doesn't want to forget. Not Stiles. Since everything changed, Scott's had to get use to pain; it's useful for controlling the Alpha, for focus, for triggering healing. Allison is always there, a dull ache that's a part of him now, grown familiar but not gone. A lot of the time, Scott's used pain because it's helped with other things. 

He rode it out for Allison. Now he has to do it for Stiles, too.

*

_In the dream, Stiles is lying close enough that the tip of his nose almost touches Scott's (once, he remembers, Stiles told him to check how many fingers her had, if he wanted to know if he was dreaming. Without looking at his hands, Scott knows that it's a dream. He knows this because Stiles is dead and, even now, even there, he can't forget that)._

_Even if he can feel Stiles' breath on his lips._

_"Hey," says Stiles, his hand on Scott's bare shoulder, thumb stroking along his collarbone. When Scott lifts his hand, it's shaking. He touches Stiles' cheek, his lips, his hair, tentatively. He presses his palm against Stiles' chest._

_"No heartbeat," he murmurs._

_Stiles' smile is crooked._

_"Dead, Scott. Remember?" Stiles' hand skims across Scott's cheek and then he was leaning in, kissing him, light at first but hungrier, harder. It's been less than two days since Scott saw him for the last time but it might as well be forever. That kiss might as well be their first. The heavy way they used to kiss._

_In the way of dreams, time slips and suddenly Scott's on top of Stiles, cradled by his spread thighs, cock buried in him. They kiss as they fuck. Scott knots his fingers in Stiles' and pushes both of his hands up over his head, pulling his spine into a tighter arch, making him gasp against Scott's lips._

_"I love you," mumbles Scott. Dimly, he's aware of saying other things too. He's not exactly sure what he's saying but he does know, for certain, that every single word means_ I love you _and_ I can't stand this _and_ don't leave me here alone _._

_He bends his head, sucking at the sweat-damp skin in the hollow of Stiles' throat._

_"You'd come for me, right, Scott? If you could?"  
"What? I'm...I'm nearly there. I..."_

_Stiles laughs, a little breathless huff that ends in a moan._

_"Not like that, dumbass. Down here. If you could come down here...If I could, you know, come back? All of this is fuckin' hard, Scott. I need you to keep up, okay? I need you to listen."_

_Scott wasn't lying - he really is getting close to coming and it's difficult to marshal his thoughts into straight lines. Stiles shifts underneath him, lifting his hips and Scott moans, but he's nodding too. Because he doesn't even need to think about it._

_"You know I would."_  
"Even if it was dangerous, Scott? Even if it was the most dangerous fucking thing in the whole world?"  
"I wouldn't care. You know I wouldn't care." 

_They scramble, shifting positions, and then Stiles is on top of him, sinking back down onto his cock, riding him, and it's nothing that they've ever done in real life, something gleaned from porn or the internet, a fantasy born of loss and longing. Scott curls his fingers around Stiles' cock and jerks him. He can feel Stiles getting closer, the way the movement of his hips changes, the way his breathing speeds up._

_"Come on, Scott," pants Stiles, head falling back, hips riding forward. "Come on, come on."_

_Scott gets the feeling that he's not talking about right here, right now - not just that, anyway - and it's all too much, he can't hold on, doesn't want to hold on. He's so, so sick of holding it together. He comes and, when he does, he closes his eyes and that's it, that's the tipping point - he can feel himself starting to wake up. Right on the edge, he could swear he hears Stiles speak._

__Come on, Scott. Come on. come on.

*

Scott wakes up suddenly, tangled in sheets damp with sweat and, embarrassingly, come. He sits up and then nearly has a heart-attack because he realises that there's someone in the corner of the room. Peter. Peter Hale, sitting in a chair like it's a perfectly normal thing to invade a teenaged boy's bedroom in the middle of the night. Scott had been so wrapped up in the dream that he hadn't even realised that he was there.

"Peter? What the hell?"  
"Pleasant dreams, Scott?" Peter's grin is wide; not for the first time, he makes Scott think of the cartoonish, cliched wolf in the fairy-tales. Oh, how big your teeth are, Grandma. "I'm very, very sorry for your loss."  
"Don't talk about him," warns Scott. With Peter sitting there, he can't exactly do anything about his shorts so just stays in bed with the sheets pooled around his waist.  
"I didn't come here to talk about _Stiles_ , Scott," says Peter. "Or, rather, I did. But in a very…" He makes an idle gesture with one hand. "Round-about way."

Scott doesn't say anything else. He just waits.

*

"You're kidding. Please tell me you're kidding."

It's funny - Kira says it and, as soon as she does, Scott realises that he'd been waiting for Stiles to butt in. Because it was always Stiles who made his voice heard, always Stiles with another plan. But there isn't another plan this time. There's barely _this_ plan. Stiles is gone.

_"There might be a way_." That's what Peter said, his face half thrown into shadow. " _To fetch him back. If you're brave enough. And being an Alpha won't help you, Scott. Being a true Alpha won't count for shit down there. I should know. I've made the trip._ "

Scott knows he shouldn't trust Peter, knows it in his _bones_ , but it's Stiles. And there's no limit to what he'll do.

"I'm not kidding," he says.

"Jesus, Scott, _stop_ ," says Issac, his arms wrapped tight around himself; he'd come back from that year in France after Allison died stiller, somehow. Quieter still. "I...haven't we. Don't we." He pauses, dragging in a breath through his nose. "It's enough that he's gone, okay? That's enough."

Scott hears what Issac's not saying, ringing out as clear as a bell.  
 _That's enough. Allison was enough - Stiles is a distinct but similar wound. But it'd be worse if it was you._

"He said it's got different names, but people mostly call it the Underworld."  
"Or Hell," says Lydia, and Scott doesn't miss the chill in her voice, the fear. "They call it that too, Scott."

Peter had mentioned that. Scott had lain awake thinking about.

"I figure I'll talk to Deaton," he says, shrugging. "I just have to find out. I have to know."

One by one, they nod. He watches them get it.

That there isn't even a question.  
That Scott would got to hell and back Stiles. As many times as it takes.

*

"It _is_ possible," says Deaton, leaning back against the counter with his arms folded across his chest. "But I wouldn't call it sensible. Or safe."

Personally, Scott has less than no interest in 'sensible'. They've come too far for 'safe'. He sets his jaw and folds his own arms. Deaton doesn't give a shit about the Alpha, Scott knows that, but he also has to hope that love means something to Deaton, that it has a weight and a purpose. That it could be worth something.

"I need to go down there," he says. "And I need you to help me. Please."

He watches Deaton weigh it up. Even now, even after years, none of them really have the full measure of Deaton - what he's capable of, all the things that he knows. The breadth of it and the weight. Scott needs him desperately - he trusts Deaton more than he trusts Peter. There still be a price to be paid, sure - there always is - but it might actually be something that he can stand to lose. He remembers that conversation that they had not like after Allison died - when Deaton had told him that things couldn't always be bad. What had he called it? Regression. Regression to the mean.

"It's a hard road, Scott," says Deaton, unfolding his arms, turning to the cabinet. "You've got to be ready."  
"I'm ready."

He might imagine it, but he thinks that Deaton might look the tiniest bit proud, right then. He nods, very slightly.

"There isn't a map for this, Scott. No compass. You'll be completely blind. Feeling your way."

Scott nods.

He's always known that he'd be willing to do it, if he had to.   
Always known that it would inevitably be Stiles he'd follow into the dark.

 

*

In Stiles' bedroom, there's a chessboard still in pride of place. Chess is a Stiles thing that Scott never took to, like Star Wars or World of Warcraft. Sometimes, at first glance, it looked like they didn't have anything in common but then, maybe there didn't have to be an explanation for the way they'd met and knit together when they were four years old. It didn't matter that they didn't always like the same things - Scott couldn't question it, the same way as he couldn't question loving his mom.

It just is.

The Sheriff is just sitting there, at the foot of Stiles' bed.

"Scott," he says, and he manages to smile, even though he looks older than he did a few days. Older, and unimaginably tired. Sitting there, he looks like a man who has literally nothing left to lose, nothing left to him but the beating of his own solitary, aching heart. They nearly lost Stiles once before - came within a hair's breadth. And that, so close on the heels of losing Allison, had been nearly more than either of them could take.

"Hi," says Scott.  
"Come here, son," says the Sheriff, patting the bed beside him. "Come on and sit down with me."

Scott sits down on the bed beside him. The mattress gives in familiar way. As a kid, he slept head to tails with Stiles in this bed, sleepovers on alternate weekends. Later, they'd moved closer, dozing with their heads on the same pillow, fingers intertwined like complicated knots. Their first kiss had been the night after a full moon; Scott had felt weird and light, hollow almost, scooped out and clean. It had been Stiles who'd leant in first, his arm against Scott's chest, not holding him down but steadying him, somehow. Steadying himself. Scott hadn't even thought about it; he'd kissed back. It had felt like the most natural thing in the world, melting into Stiles like that. Kissing.

Anchors. Always anchors.

Sitting there next to Stiles' dad, Scott blushes thinking about it.

"I hate this," he says, quietly. "I hate it."  
"I know, son." The Sheriff nods slowly. "Listen, Scott…Your mom called, and…"

Scott's already shaking his head.

"She shouldn't have called; it isn't her business. Don't try and talk me out of it. I've got one shot at it - I have to take it, don't I? I have to try?"

More than anything, he wants the Sheriff to nod and tell him that _yes, yes of course he has to try_. He wants to hear it somewhere that's not the inside of his own head.

"Maybe," says the Sheriff, and Scott knows him well enough to see the struggle in that, the fact that that one word is hard-won. Scott, of all people, knows all about the things that you carve out of yourself, the things you'd rather die than have see the air. But, sometimes, there they are anyway. Waiting.

"I have to."  
"You're a good kid, Scott. You're...like a son to me."

He doesn't say it, but Scott hears it - clear as a bell ringing out in the silence of the bedroom.  
 _I can't lose you both._

"I know and...I'm really, really grateful for that. Let me do this. For you. For him."  
"It should be me that goes," says the Sheriff, his head bent over his clasped hands. "He's my son."

Scott shakes his head.

"It has to be me," he says.  
Because sometimes, he can still feel it - that darkness around his heart.

He doesn't want anyone else to feel that.  
Not when Allison and Stiles have already gone on ahead of him. Not now he's the only one left.

*

In the woods, a walk north from the Nemeton, the lake lies dreaming. The surface of the water is silver in the moonlight. The willows sway like women bent over, sobbing, trailing their fingers and their long, windswept hair. He walks there, head bent, stepping through the silent trees. Derek walks beside him, close enough that they occasionally touch at the shoulder. Isaac follows, holding onto Scott's mom's hand. There was no way she was going to allow herself to be left behind.

They have a map for this part, at least. Peter drew it. Derek is holding it in his hand.

"You have to go in," says Derek, standing with his heels digging into the sandy earth on the shore. "All the way in."

Scott finds himself thinking about a book that he had when he was a kid - it had all these different myths in it. It had King Arthur dying by a lake, waiting for three Queens to bring a boat. It had Orpheus going into hell of the girl he loved. Scott's not King of anything, though. He's never really been able to sing.

But here they are, anyway.  
He nods.

"Okay," he says.

He strips off his jacket and his shoes, stands shivering in the brisk breeze. His mom takes a step forward but Isaac catches her gently by the shoulders, pulls her in against his chest. So Isaac and his mom are there but it's Derek who's with him, at the end. Derek who stands toe to toe with him. Derek who almost reaches out but then shoves his hands into his pockets instead.

"I dream about him, sometimes," he offers. "Stiles. Could never fucking figure out why but, sometimes, I just dream I'm talking to him."  
"He always knew what to say," says Scott, fighting this sudden, great numbness.   
"Even if he didn't, he'd find something to talk about." This time, Derek does actually reach out, squeezes Scott's shoulder. "Go get him, but don't stay down there if you can't, okay? We've lost enough, all of us. We wouldn't survive losing you too. You know that." It's not a question. Derek says it quietly, firmly, like he's stating a fact. "I'd follow you, you know. I'd fight if you needed me to."

"Derek, I know," says Scott; he'd figured that out about Derek a long time ago. "But this has to be just me."

Derek nods. 

"Yeah." He glances back over his shoulder. "I'll take care of them."

Scott knows that a promise like that has got to be hard on Derek - he's always struggled, more than any of them, to find kindness.

No point in waiting any longer; it's only going to get cooler as the sun goes down. He steps into the lake and the water is so brutally cold that he almost steps right back out again. It reminds him of that ice-water they'd sunk into to slow their heartbeats. It reminds him of Deaton's hands on his shoulders. At the last minute, he'd glanced across, seen Allison, seen Stiles, thought that they, _either_ of them, should have been the ones holding him down.

The water to his chest, now, and the cold is like a punch. He stops and glances back over his shoulder, sees his mom standing there, Isaac's arms wrapped around her. Isaac's eyes are closed but his mom is watching. He smiles at her and, a beat later, she smiles back.

Scott turns his back and dives.

He's always been a strong swimmer - he and Stiles learned to swim the same summer, when they were five. He's always been a strong swimmer but, as he drags himself deeper, the cold threatens to overtake him completely. He wonders what drowning feels like. He wonders how fast you'd know what was happening to you. He knows that he has to aim for a crack in the rocks. He knows that he has to get down there, even if he has to drag himself by his fingernails. Even if it hurts. Even if it's _agony_. He's got to fight his way down.

There's no way that the lake could naturally be this cold, this deep. His lungs are screaming, his muscles aching, and he could turn back, he could still turn back, accept that people die, that even nineteen year old boys can die, and it doesn't matter how much you love them, or how you'd do anything to keep them safe.

No. Fuck that. Scott's not ready to admit to any of that. And the cleft in the rock is within reach of his grasping fingers.

He claws at it. He pulls his way on down.

*

_ii: "initiation"_

_Stiles_.

His mom is there, combing her fingers through his hair. He doesn't want to get up yet. He turns his head, burrowing his face into the pillow. Just a few more minutes. He wants a few more minutes and then he'll get up, get a shower, go get Scott.

...But that's not right. That can't be right, because he's thinking about his car keys and the last time he saw his mom...the last time he saw his mom, he couldn't drive because he was eight. He was only eight. Because his mom's dead, isn't she? His mom's been dead for years.

_Open your eyes, baby._  
 _I can't_.  
 _Open your eyes._  
 _It hurts_.  
 _Oh, baby, I know. Everything these days does._  
 _Mom._  
 _Do it anyway._.

Stiles opens his eyes.

It's a warehouse, something like a warehouse, the walls indistinct, the ceiling so far overhead that he can't even see it. He's lying on his back on a close-packed dirt floor, wearing Scott's red hoodie and no shoes. He's freezing cold, too. Ever since he fought his way free of the Nogisune, he's had this mortal fear of being cold. He swaddles himself in layers. Wears socks to bed. Fights it off.

_Get up, Stiles._

He remembers the crash, just barely. It's like an echo. Remembers losing control of the jeep and swerving off the road, the jeep rolling. The roof crushing in. Seat-belt. Had he been wearing his seat-belt? He'd only run out to the store, gone to get a few things for his dad, a few things to drop around to Scott's mom. It hadn't been important. He hadn't meant to be gone long.

Anger wells up in him, suddenly and unfamiliar. Stiles is given to sudden flares of irritation, flash-bangs, but this is something else. This is a flood, his body filled up by it, overwhelming, consuming. He thinks of anger as hot, in general, but this is cold, like ice. He freezes with how fucking _unfair_ it is. They were suppose to get longer than this. They were supposed to be happy. Most of all, he hates that this is happening to Scott _again_ ; Stiles doesn't know if what they've got is the same as what Scott had with Allison, but it's similar and, of all the people that deserve to feel that sort of pain again, Stiles hates that it's happening to Scott.

Scott, who is good and should be happy. Scott, who is sunshine personified. Scott, who deserves to feel no pain.

Suddenly, the building is suffocating, despite its breadth, the height of the ceiling. The walls stay where they are but they feel like they're closing in. He's choking on his hurt, his anger, his sorrow. He can't breathe. He can't breathe.

He stumbles out of the front door, collapses onto his knees and vomits up thin stuff that tastes of pure acid. When he manages to raise his head, he sees a street a lot like the one he grew up on. Hell (the word pops into his head unbidden, and he feels like he's talking about it in the wider Greek sense, not fire-and-brimstone and devils with pitchforks) looks a hell of a lot like Beacon Hills. It's ironic, when he thinks about it. There had been times when he'd felt death coming, slipping through the trees. Times when they all had.

The anger's still with him. It digs its claws into him and holds on.

"Come on!" he screams, out into the faded grey light that's not a part of either night or morning. "Come _on_! Scott!" That last word is the bit that breaks him. Scott's name is a step too far. He collapses down onto his knees, sobbing, tears rolling down his face. The desperate labouring of his lungs. Scott's name screaming in his head like a pulse, over and over again.

He's so distraught that he almost doesn't hear it.  
There's a dog barking, somewhere out there in the hot dark.

*

He walks. He can't go back inside, so he starts moving. It's warm now that he's outside but the hoodie he's wearing is Scott's, so he doesn't want to leave it behind. Red cotton seems to be the only colour in the landscape, which is washed out and faded. Stiles feels like he stands out like a flame. Dead - he must be dead. He never got a chance to say goodbye to any of them: to Scott or Melissa, Isaac and Kira, Lydia. His dad. Oh, God. His _dad_. After the Nogitsune, Stiles had watched his dad make a conscious effort not to cling on too hard - not to hold onto him too tight. They'd spent a lot of time sitting side by side, pressed shoulder to shoulder, while Stiles talked and his dad listened. He'd had so much that he felt like he needed to get out - the deaths on his conscience, yeah, but the other stuff, too. The feeling of being trapped inside his own head. Of how it had felt to fight his way out. Of how ready he'd been to die, if it would have made it all just _stop_.

(That was the worst part of it, by far...the look on his dad's face when he'd described having Kira's katana in his hand, and how ready he'd been to use it).

The ground is getting marshier, sticky and thick with mud. The soles of his bare feet sink in deep. Still, he's got the sense that he's got to keep got to keep going - got to keep moving. The need for momentum is always there, a niggling, tickling sensation in the back of his skull. 

Down to the river. Down, down, down.

He knows about this part. He wrote a paper on it - the symbolism of Aeneas in the Underworld. He knows this part, so he's expecting the boat, rickety and wooden, expecting the guy slouching in the prow. _Charon_ , his brain supplies. That's this guy's name. Somehow, Stiles was expecting robes, a whole creepy monk sort of deal but what he gets is a guy in a t-shirt, jeans worn through at the knees, a wing of dark hair across his eyes. Wayfarers.

"Hey man," he says. "Got the fare?"

Stiles already knows that he isn't carrying anything; he's been walking with both hands shoved into his pocket. Mostly, he's been feeling the absence of his phone. It feels sort of like having a limb excised. He shakes his head, rolls his shoulder in a shrug. The breeze stirs his shirt around him and then he feels it: the faintest tickle at the back of his throat. A hint of soreness. He clears his throat, which leads to a cough. Once he starts, he can't stop, a gale of coughing blowing through him, sharp-nailed, raking at the lining of his lungs. He retches until he brings something up, spits it out into his hand.

It's a dollar. A silver dollar.  
He can't help but be reminded of a full moon.

When he holds it out, a broad grin spreads across Charon's lean, wolfish face.

"That'll do, man," he says, standing up to usher Stiles into the rickety boat.  
That dog is still barking.

The water is dark and brackish, with an oily rainbow sheen. Always fidgeting, Stiles almost reaches out to trail his fingers in it but, at the last minute, thinks better of it. He rubs the back of his neck instead.

"You could take the oar," says Charon, propelling them smoothly across the water. Stiles can't help but notice that they're not throwing out any ripples. He knows enough to stay at his end of the boat, though, folds his arms across his chest and hugs himself tight. He doesn't move any closer.

"Yeah, yeah," he says. "Just row your freaking boat."  
They start moving out across the water. Slowly. Surely.

Stiles thinks (though he can't be sure) that there are faces in the water, stretched and weird, swimming alongside. He thinks that, maybe, he recognises some of them. He doesn't have many pictures of his mom up at home. They have a lot of her things; her voice is still on the landline answerphone. He's never needed photographs because he remembers what she looks like. He's always felt like she was present.

But he still doesn't want to look into the water. Just in case. Just because.

It takes a long, long time for them to nudge the opposite shore. The river is wider than it looks. _Styx_ , his brain supplies. So he's really in it now, isn't he? Right in the middle of it. 

The dog sounds much, much closer than before.

"Thanks, man," he says, turning, but Charon is already on his way back again, piloting his little skiff smoothly across the dark, glass-smooth surface of the water, his shades turned up towards the sunless sky.

Stiles turns to go. his side of the river looks a lot like where he's just come from: cracked cement and scrawny little green weeds trying to force their way into the light. Up and out. They're the only colour down here and Stiles finds them very comforting - that something here is still trying to press its way on through.

He's been turning it into a chant, a pulse, a second heartbeat in his chest in place of the first, tucked in along side his dull, silent heart.

_Come on, come on, come on._

He hears the dog before he sees it. It's not barking anymore - now it's growling, a sound that rolls and throbs like thunder. Stiles didn't have a dog growing up, but he spent a lot of time at the station, so he's used to service animals. Lydia's got Prada who's _technically_ a dog. Maybe once he was scared of dogs - maybe that's why they've never had one in the house? Stiles used to hate coyotes but that was a decision that he made, based on conscious thought - he got over it. When he hears the dog growling, though, there's a part of him that freezes: the core of him, which as born alone, in darkness, long ago and scared.

He turns. He does turn to run but the dog is already there, waiting. It's huge, almost bigger than can be believed. Three great heads. Teeth (oh God, so many teeth). He knows that he ought to run but he can't do it, can't make his legs do the work. _Cerberus_ , his brain supplies. Guardian. Gatekeeper. Because he hasn't already fallen fa enough - because this isn't already harder than he could ever have imagined.

Shit. 

It moves all at once - _explodes_ forward - and Stiles scrambles backwards, stumbling, falling, scooting on his ass and the heels of his hands. His sneakers slip; the cement tears at the palms of his hands. It's so close now that he can feel its breath on his face, hot and rank. He squeezes his eyes shut, throws one arm up over his face, prepared to die all over again. Game over. Back to the start.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

But then, miraculously, impossibly he hears it: the impact of an arrow. It's a dull, final sort of sound - a thud and then the blood is hot and thick and sudden, splashing over his face.

"Hi," she says. "Stiles?"

He sees her and, suddenly, all that he can think of is Scott. They all missed her, _Stiles_ has missed her, but none of them have missed her like Scott. It's not something that Stiles has ever resented or questioned - it was a part of them, like dinner with Scott's mom or football with Stiles' dad. Something that they incorporated and lived with. Stiles has never really had a jealous bone in his body; he's always recognised getting Scott at all as the gift that it really is.

There she is, tall and beautiful in black leather, the hot wind whipping the dark tendrils of her hair across her face. Her bow is an extension of her arm; her gaze is dark and watchful; her smile is just as quick and as beautiful as he remembers. She's a candleflame, throwing off light in all of that wide darknes.

"Oh, my God," he says. "Allison."

"What the hell are you doing here, Stiles?" she says, and it doesn't escape his notice that she's got another arrow notched, ready. He'd had time to get used to the idea of Allison Argent as a warrior, but, somehow, he'd never expected to see her _here_ , like some kind of goddess, like something carved out of silver and jet. He wonders how she made it across the river; taking the boat like he did seems far too mundane.

There's this weird jazz chatter in the air suddenly, and Allison whips her head around, looking over her shoulder.

"We've got to move," she says.  
Stiles scrambles to his feet. He doesn't wait to ask her why.

They walk quickly, heading down a lot straight road. Allison circles, covering them as much as she can. Stiles doesn't want to think about what they might be running from, what might be nightmarish enough down here that they _need_ to run from it. He didn't see the Oni dying outside the school, but he heard about it afterwards, from Scott. He remembers opening his eyes and seeing Lydia standing over him, the soft and fragrant tendrils of her hair and the tears still wet on her face.

There's something happening ahead of them. Stiles can see it now. Something violent, so violent that it's throwing off sparks in the violet, chattering night. Allison seems to be bringing them straight towards it and Stiles doesn't mean to question her, he really doesn't, but it seems like such an obviously bad idea.

"Hey, Allison?" he says, glancing across at her, then back towards whatever's happening down there. He can hear the noise of it, now - shouting, cries of agony, the sound of steel on steel. "You really think we ought to be going this way?"  
"We have to," she says. "It's the only way through."  
"To _what_?"  
"The palace," she says. "You've got to go through there to where you're...supposed to be. Asphodel - it's where the music's coming from. Your...If she's down here, your mom'll be there, Stiles." Her teeth touch her lip. "But...then there's Elysium. The Fields, they call it. Or the islands of the Blessed. It's...for warriors and heroes. Maybe…" A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Maybe you deserve to be there, too. No storms, no snow, no wind or rain. Just a breeze from the west. It's beautiful, Stiles. It's the most beautiful place that I've ever seen."

Stiles feels tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. He tries really hard not to cry - he cries too much - but he's never thought of himself like that and hearing her say it? Means kind of a lot.

He shakes his head.

"Not me, Allison."

He couldn't, not if he had year, really explain the way she looks at him, right then.

"Oh, Stiles."

It's difficult to see what's going on ahead of them - all Stiles can make out are limbs and the dust thrown up by feet and falling bodies. Allison lets an arrow fly. From this distance, Stiles can't hear the impact, but he does see someone go down. Allison draws another arrow.

And then he hears it, ringing out over the whole of hell, drowning out every other sound.

Scott howls. And that sound, that huge, soaring sound rings out, clear like a bell, reverberates through Stiles' bones, through his ribcage and collarbones. He's heard it before, so many times before, but the time that stands out clearest is the time when Scott forced his way through into Stiles' head - the time he came to fetch him back.

And here he is again, fighting for his life.

Scott throws back his head and howls again. _I don't need it this time_ , Stiles thinks. _I'd have found you in the dark._

He breaks into a dead run, sure that Allison is right behind him. The soldiers, all different stripes of soldiers, guys from all these different conflicts, gear that Stiles recognises from history textbooks. Such a jumble of wars, all mixed in together, all of them trying their hardest to tear Scott apart. Stiles realises that it must be because Scott's alive, because Scott's made it down here with a heart that's still cracked and bloody and beating. If Stiles concentrates, he can almost smell it - muddy water, cut grass, blood, sunlight. Life comes screaming out of every pore on Scott's body, shining like light from his fingertips and the ends of his hair. _Katabasis_ , he remembers. Descent. Pulling himself on down, like Orpheus and Odysseus before him.

"Scott!"

Every single one of the soldiers stops fighting, then. As one man, they turn and look at him. Stiles has never thought of himself as brave, not really, but he finds bravery in himself, usually - when he needs it. Those soldiers turn and look at him and Stiles stands his ground. Honestly, he barely even notices that they're there; he isn't looking at anybody but Scott. Allison moves closer to the soldiers and, one by one, they wink out of existence, insubstantial as dust. As if her very presence was enough to drive them back. Stiles finds himself staring at her. What is she? How much power does she actually have down here?

" _Stiles_!"

Their bodies slam together like magnets. Stiles throws both of his arms around Scott's broad shoulders and he's not sure how he's ever supposed to let go after that. Scott is as warm and solid as Stiles remembers, even if it does seem like years and years since the last time he held Scott in his arms. Everything seems distant. But Scott's right there, smiling like freaking sunshine personified.

And he came. There's a part of Stiles that never doubted it for a second. 

Scott sways in and kisses him, hard on the mouth, fingers pushed into his hair and pulling and, for a minute, Stiles forgets to breathe. He just wants to hold onto Scott like a rope, like a rock. For the first time since all of this started, maybe he really understands what an anchor has to be.

The kiss breaks. For a split second, they're breathing the same air. Stiles is looking straight at Scott, so he sees the moment when Scott realises that Allison's standing there too. With anyone else, Stiles might have felt a flicker of jealousy, but this is _Scott McCall_ that he's talking about, Scott whose heart is big enough for all of them. How's he supposed to be jealous, when him and Allison are maybe the same thing to Scott, but in slightly different directions?

"Hi, Scott," says Allison, and holy God, she's so so lovely when she smiles. "Come on. It's not much further."

They walk there, the three of them, hand in hand.

*

The palace is huge and terrifying, awesome in the most literal sense of the word - hulking, vast, carved out of ash and bone. A lot of times in his life, Stiles has felt sort of small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but he's never felt as tiny, as pointless, as he does as he walks through those gates with Scott and Allison. Together, they go into the halls of the dead. Ahead of them, two figures sitting on tall, silver thrones. Stiles feels Scott's fingers tighten around his. On Scott's other side, Allison is tall and pale and lovely, but cold. She doesn't smile. Scott's expression is unreadable. Stiles holds on tight.

He knows enough to know what he's looking at. The King and Queen of Hell; Hades and his stolen bride. The King himself is drawn in shades of charcoal, greys and whites. The Queen wears a crown made out of cogs and spikes of steel. Her dress is green, stained red, muddy at the hem. When they get close enough, Stiles thinks that he can see earth caked under her fingernails.

"Oh," Persephone says, her voice like a warm breeze. "How sweet. How darling."

Hades doesn't say anything. From this angle, Stiles can see that he's indistinct, barely there at all. He looks like he's made out of glass - like, if he'd fell, he'd shatter. So pale that the light shines through him.

Scott lets go of Stiles and Allison's hands at exactly the same time. He steps forward, but doesn't kneel. It's not arrogance, not cruelty, either - out of everyone Stiles knows, Scott's probably got the least ego. Scott doesn't stay standing because he thinks he's above kneeling; Scott stays standing because he's a true Alpha, because he fought his way down here, because it doesn't even occur to him to kneel.

"I've come for them," he says, voice low and quiet. "I'm going to take them home."

"I've played this game before, puppy," says Persephone, stifling a yawn against the back of her hand. "And that's not how this works."  
"You came down here before you were supposed to," says Stiles, stepping forward to stand beside Scott. "You know what it feels like."  
"I get so bored of this," she says. "This...assumption that I was stolen. That it must be so _hard_ for me." She leans forward across her knees, her dark hair falling forward. Something about her reminds Stiles of Erica in those first, dangerous days. Electric. Like she could burn the whole fucking world down. Which makes sense, somehow - if Spring is a spark. "I have power down here - a whole realm versus a few puny months, blossoms which turn blowsy, grasses which go to seed. I do the talking down here." Her scarlet lips made a moue over sharp teeth. "But you're very sweet. Say your goodbyes, McCall. I'll let you go. My dog will let you pass."

"You don't understand," says Scott, shaking his head. "I'm not leaving without them."  
"Did I make it sound like a choice? I didn't mean to. All men die, Scott McCall." Her eyes flicker to Allison. "All women, too. I know that you love him, baby - I can smell it on you. But it's not as easy as that."

"Why not?" Allison flips her hair back from her eyes, and Stiles notices that she's got an arrow resting against the string of her bow. "Why can't it be easy this time?"

Why can't something be easy? Jesus Christ.  
They've been through so much already.

"At last, someone interesting. Welcome, Allison Argent." Persephone leans back on her throne and smiles. "I get so sick of these men, these so-called heroes. These Odysseuses and Aeneases afloat on the tide of their own epices. They do so much talking and they never bring me anything I want. But you...you're beautiful and you've hurt, haven't you? You know how it feels to give everything up."

Allison looks at Scott for a long, long moment before she nods.

"I know how it feels."

Persephone stands. She's impossibly tall, would be even without the crown. In her arms and legs, Stiles can see muscles tightened by running. He pictures her in full flight, head down, flat out, chasing through high grass. He imagines her hair streaming out behind her. Her arms thrown out like wings. He imagines how beautiful she would be, how vital and free. In that moment, he realises how desperate he is to feel the sun again. A single tear rolls down his cheek, drips off his chin, soaks into his shirt.

"You're a hero," says Persephone, still talking to Allison. "That much is clear.  
"I'm a hero," says Allison. "I was born to fight. To lead. I fought for everything I ever had."  
"And you love him."  
"I love them both."  
"Enough to die for them."  
"I did die for them," says Allison, and Stiles feels like that a punch. "I'd do it again."

Persephone leans in, close enough to Allison to kiss.

"You're already dead, Allison," she says. "But it is within my power to reward you, before I send you down to the islands by the sea. You can have everything you ever wanted."

Allison shakes her head.

"This is the only thing that I want."  
"Allison, wait…" Scott steps forward and Allison turns to face him, perfectly in sync. It's like they're wired together, like they always were.  
"No, Scott," she says. "Let me do this. I can't come back. I'm so, so tired. Take this. From me." She presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth. "I've always...I'll always."

Tears are bright on Scott's face.

"I know. Me too."  
What Stiles knows is this: that the human heart is complicated, vast-ventricled, many-walled. That it contains roads and cities. That a person can fall in love a million times and mean every single one.

"So this is it?" Persephone looks between Scott and Stiles; her eyes are the raw green of ripening leaves. "This is what you want as a reward."

Allison nods. Persephone growls but, in the end, she nods.

"You," she says, pointing one sharp nail square at Scott's heart. "Go first. Keep walking, don't look back. If you look back, you lose, puppy. And I'll keep you. I'll eat your fucking heart." She turned her gaze on Stiles. Her palm against his cheek was warm; his own hands are so cold that they're shaking. "And you - you're mine by right, so I suppose the going has to be slightly tougher on you, doesn't it."

She curls her fingers, raking bloody scratches down his face.

"I'll do anything."

"Damn right you will. You have to get yourself out, little one. You have to get yourself all of the way out. If he touches you, if he even looks at you, you'll come straight back here and I won't be kind, do you hear me? I'll have carved all of the kindness out of me."

Stiles nods. He gets it.

He and Scott both watch as Persephone leans in and kisses Allison on the mouth. It's a soft, gentle sort of kiss. The last thing that Stiles sees is Allison flowing softly with silver light as she starts to fade.

Then nothing.  
Down in the dark again

*

He's fumbling in the dark. One step at a time. Somewhere ahead of him, he can hear Scott breathing, hear the slip-slide of gravel under the soles of Scott's shoes. He can't see. He can't see anything. He puts out both hands and gropes his way along, trying not to fall flat on his face. Under his feet, there's a steep incline to the path.

_Stiles_.

He hears his name as a whisper, harsh, spat straight into his ear. He recognises the voice instantly; he heard it often enough. At first, he'd been worried that he made it up inside his head. Hearing it against makes him want to vomit. He feels bandaged fingers brush against the back of his neck.

Don't look back. Don't look back. Jesus Christ, don't look back.

He tries counting steps. One two three _Oh God_ four five _I can't_ six seven eight _I'm so afraid_ nine ten. Tears roll down his face. He keeps his eyes squeezed tight shut.

_Did you think it was going to be easy, Stiles? Did you think you could leave me behind so easily? I'm waiting, Stiles. I've always been waiting. Waiting for you in the dark. And here you are. He can't help you anymore, Stiles. He can't help you. You're going to be stuck down here forever, Stiles. No second chance for you. Scott isn't going to save you this time, Stiles. He isn't allowed to come for you._

"No," says a voice ahead of him, one that Stiles remembers better in dreams than anywhere else. "But I can."

He forces himself to open his eyes and sees her standing there. She smiles.

Stiles doesn't have many pictures of his mom up in his room at home because he's never needed them; he remembers what she looks like. Sometimes, he wonders if it hurts his dad, the fact that Stiles has grown up to look a hell of a lot like his mom: he's got her colouring, her eyes, her slender limbs. The shape of his mouth mirrors hers. Standing there, dressed in black and silver like Allison before her, she doesn't look much like he remembers her. She's not much older than he is now. She's got starlight in her hair.

"Mom?" he says.

She nods.   
"Hello, baby."

He wants to fall into her arms, be held by her (the last time she held him, really held him, he was seven years old and her brain had almost, but not completely, shut her out. She'd held onto him so tightly that he'd thought his bones were going to break). He takes a step towards her, but Claudia Stilinski holds out her hand.

"Mom, I..." He's surprised by how much it hurts when she shakes her head.  
"Better not, baby," she says. "Let's not give her an excuse to be cruel. Just...follow me, okay? Keep me in the corner of your eye. Don't pay attention to anything you see."

He follows her. The things he sees are terrifying, worse than he can believe. He sees Scott torn limb from limb, sees Lydia pinned down like an exotic butterfly, her ribs spread, gory and open to the air. He sees his father and Kira and Isaac and Allison, the twins, Danny, Derek, Erica, Boyd...anyone and everyone he's ever cared for. He sees terrible things happen, again and again. Torture. Mutilation. Hate. He can't get to any of them. He daren't step off the path. His mom is a flickering beacon, always just ahead of him, carefully out of reach.

She throws off light like a dying star.

Stumbling, Stiles ends up on his knees. He feels her closer then - the light translates as alien warmth against his skin.

"You're nearly there, baby," she whispers. "You're so, so close."  
He hears the Nogitsune clear its throat again, but then his mom flares bright, her light killing, and strips all of the shadow out of his mind. Stiles feels scoured clean. It feels like he's remade. Ahead of him, there's a door, half as tall as he is. He has to get down on all fours to crawl towards it.

He hears her whisper something like _I love you_. Something else, though. Something that makes perfect sense at the time, even if he does forget it almost instantly.

A door clicks shut behind him.

*

Dark, though. For a long time after that.

A dog or something, barking in the night.  
He dreams of lying dormant like a stone.

*

"Stiles? Stiles!"

Water. Everywhere. His lungs screaming. He swims towards the sound of someone calling his name. For a horrible, sinking moment, he can't figure up from down. He can't breathe underwater. He's running out of oxygen and, sick and dizzy, his head spinning, he's sure he's about to die again. 

But then a hand breaks the surface above his head, grabs a fistful of his shit and drags him kicking up into the sunlight and the air.

His vision swims. There's no strength left in his limbs; he can't hold himself upright. Strong arms pull him in and cradle him against a broad chest. His dad. It's his dad, and he's holding on with all his might.

"Don't you do that to me again, Stiles," he mumbles, lips mashed against Stiles' soaking wet hair. "Don't you ever do that to me again."

It's all that Stiles can do to shake his head, hold onto his dad's jacket as hard as he can.

Clear as day, he sees it - the way his mom smiles before she turns away, job done, kindness offered, taking her time as she walks back down into the dark.

*

_iii: "return"_

He wakes up and he's in Stiles' bed.  
He wakes up with Stiles in his arms.

For the second time in his life, Stiles has been struggling to stay warm. In the last couple of weeks, they've spent a lot of time here, heaped with quilts and blankets, T.V dragged right up to the foot of the bed. Neither of them had been stupid enough to think that it would be easy; Scott's watched as Stiles has had to figure out how to come back. He has trouble sleeping - suddenly, it feels too final and he wakes a handful of times a night, breathing heavily, reaching for Scott with grasping hands. Stiles says that, sometimes, it feels like his heart has forgotten how to beat on a regular rhythm. Scott presses his hand against Stiles' bare chest and leaves it there until Stiles calms down. Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, he'll turn his head suddenly because he sees movement in the corner of his eye.

They haven't seen the others yet. All of them have been through so much strange shit, but this one is going to take more explaining than either of them have words for.

They're taking their time.  
Scott finds himself thinking about Allison a lot.

At his side, Stiles stirs. Scott strokes his fingers against Stiles' bare side, against his ribs. They went to bed naked, and Scott sinks into the feeling of Stiles' bare skin against his. Somewhere in the house, Scott can hear Stiles' dad getting ready to go to work. Having them sleeping in the same bed under his roof has been a learning curve for the Sheriff, but he's figured it out - Scott figures that it's understandable that he doesn't want Stiles out of his sight, for a while at least.

"Mmmmm," says Stiles, squirming, burying his face in the pillow for a second before he finally squints up at Scott. "Hey."

"Hi," says Scott, leaning in to kiss the tip of Stiles' nose. It hasn't escaped his notice that Stiles has woken up hard and Scott sneaks a hand between them, curling his fingers around Stiles' cock and stroking, slowly. They've been having sex a lot, recently - even for teenagers. Scott figures that it's a way of reminding them both what it feels like to be alive.

They kiss slowly, lazily, with Scott still stroking Stiles' cock. It doesn't have to be full sex, every time. Scott likes it when they press close, when they start slow but move with increasing urgency, cocks grazing against each other. He likes the way Stiles moans. He likes the avalanche that he feels when Stiles starts to tremble. Stiles kisses like he can't get enough of it. It's sort of like the way he laughs - the way it seems to take his whole body, like he's got no control over it. He kisses like he can't control it. His body goes on without him. Scott shifts so that his hands wrapped around his cock, too, so that he's grazing along the whole length of Stiles' cock with every shift of his hips. They move like that, with increasing urgency, kissing, one of Stiles' hands pushed into Scott's hair, fingers twisted so they pull slightly. Holding on for dear life.

"I love you," mumbles Scott, pressing the syllables between Stiles' lips with kisses. "Don't ever fucking leave me again."

"I won't," says Stiles. They both know it's not certain, not a promise that's his to make but they'll take it, for now. They'll lie to each other, for now.

*

(In other words: the hell of loving other people is not enough to stop us).


End file.
